he heard it. Dan nodded so vigorously he almost fell off his drum throne.
Quinn grinned and Shan could tell he thought so, too. They had their first collaborative song.
A week later, the whole band was working on their second one. As they practiced, the morning rain struck a staccato rhythm against the cast-iron exterior of Shan’s building. It was loud, but seemed only a backbeat to the music pounding inside the loft.
You’ve got to be tough, you learn to be mean
If you’re making your home in the big city streets
You give up your spirit but live on your dreams
When you have to survive in the big city heat
When Quinn raised his hand, the metal tempo ground to a halt. “Not bad,” he said over the rain. “It’s coming together pretty well.”
Shan tapped her fingers on the neck of her Peavey. “The arrangement is fine, but those lyrics need work.”
“You wrote most of them,” he reminded her, an edge creeping into his tone.
“I know. Now I’m thinking the song should end with a more positive message.”
“The lyrics are fine. In a metal tune, the music is what matters anyway.”
“The lyrics are just as important,” Shan insisted, “and I think they’re too dark.”
Quinn snorted as Ty heaved a deep sigh. “I didn’t realize we were going for social commentary here. Who are you, Joni fucking Mitchell, like you call your guitar?”
“Don’t knock Joni,” Shan said, as Dan rose from the drum kit and collapsed onto the pile of floor pillows. “She brings social issues into a public arena, unlike your heroes who are all form and no content.”
“Like who?” he challenged.
“Like Rick fucking Wakeman,” she shot back.
Dan sat up and flung a pillow through the air, whacking Quinn squarely in the face before he could respond. “Will the two of you please shut the hell up ?” he roared.
It was such an uncharacteristic outburst from mellow Dan that both Shan and Quinn were startled into laughter. Dan wrapped another pillow around his head with a groan.
Ty set his Fender Jazz aside and cleared his throat. “It’s time we set some new ground rules.”
Quinn regarded him dubiously. “What do you mean new rules?”
“You’re spending too much time debating every fucking thing. We’re supposed to be practicing . That’s why we call it band practice .”
“ We’re the ones coming up with the tunes you’re so excited about,” Quinn said.
“Q’s right,” Shan chimed in. “ We’re doing the work. All you have to do is learn the songs.”
Dan sighed. “You know, I’ve noticed that it seems to be just fine for the two of you to insult each other, but if me or Ty state a different opinion, then one of you immediately jumps in to defend the other one. How is that fair?” Quinn shrugged and Shan thrust her chin out, frowning.
Ty tried again. “Look, we’re not saying anything negative about the music. It’s the balls—we’re all in agreement there. It’s your method that needs to change.”
“Ty’s exactly right,” Dan said. “When we’re together, we should be concentrating on learning the new material. There’s four of us, remember? It isn’t just the O’Hara-Marshall show.”
Shan’s eyes went huge with guilty realization. “I’m sorry. I never thought of it that way.”
“I’m not sorry,” Quinn said disagreeably. “The music we’re turning out benefits all of us, and you two”—he pointed at Dan and Ty—“are blocking.”
“Can’t we just go back to the way we handled your writing before? He always had it finished before he played it for us,” Ty told Shan.
“But we’re bringing it to you as we go along so you can be part of the process,” Shan said. “This way, the whole band is contributing.”
“They contribute plenty after the songs are written,” Quinn said, “and that’s how it should be. You were the one who insisted on a group love fest, which I knew would turn into a cluster fuck.”
“But don’t you think
Quinn grinned and Shan could tell he thought so, too. They had their first collaborative song.
A week later, the whole band was working on their second one. As they practiced, the morning rain struck a staccato rhythm against the cast-iron exterior of Shan’s building. It was loud, but seemed only a backbeat to the music pounding inside the loft.
You’ve got to be tough, you learn to be mean
If you’re making your home in the big city streets
You give up your spirit but live on your dreams
When you have to survive in the big city heat
When Quinn raised his hand, the metal tempo ground to a halt. “Not bad,” he said over the rain. “It’s coming together pretty well.”
Shan tapped her fingers on the neck of her Peavey. “The arrangement is fine, but those lyrics need work.”
“You wrote most of them,” he reminded her, an edge creeping into his tone.
“I know. Now I’m thinking the song should end with a more positive message.”
“The lyrics are fine. In a metal tune, the music is what matters anyway.”
“The lyrics are just as important,” Shan insisted, “and I think they’re too dark.”
Quinn snorted as Ty heaved a deep sigh. “I didn’t realize we were going for social commentary here. Who are you, Joni fucking Mitchell, like you call your guitar?”
“Don’t knock Joni,” Shan said, as Dan rose from the drum kit and collapsed onto the pile of floor pillows. “She brings social issues into a public arena, unlike your heroes who are all form and no content.”
“Like who?” he challenged.
“Like Rick fucking Wakeman,” she shot back.
Dan sat up and flung a pillow through the air, whacking Quinn squarely in the face before he could respond. “Will the two of you please shut the hell up ?” he roared.
It was such an uncharacteristic outburst from mellow Dan that both Shan and Quinn were startled into laughter. Dan wrapped another pillow around his head with a groan.
Ty set his Fender Jazz aside and cleared his throat. “It’s time we set some new ground rules.”
Quinn regarded him dubiously. “What do you mean new rules?”
“You’re spending too much time debating every fucking thing. We’re supposed to be practicing . That’s why we call it band practice .”
“ We’re the ones coming up with the tunes you’re so excited about,” Quinn said.
“Q’s right,” Shan chimed in. “ We’re doing the work. All you have to do is learn the songs.”
Dan sighed. “You know, I’ve noticed that it seems to be just fine for the two of you to insult each other, but if me or Ty state a different opinion, then one of you immediately jumps in to defend the other one. How is that fair?” Quinn shrugged and Shan thrust her chin out, frowning.
Ty tried again. “Look, we’re not saying anything negative about the music. It’s the balls—we’re all in agreement there. It’s your method that needs to change.”
“Ty’s exactly right,” Dan said. “When we’re together, we should be concentrating on learning the new material. There’s four of us, remember? It isn’t just the O’Hara-Marshall show.”
Shan’s eyes went huge with guilty realization. “I’m sorry. I never thought of it that way.”
“I’m not sorry,” Quinn said disagreeably. “The music we’re turning out benefits all of us, and you two”—he pointed at Dan and Ty—“are blocking.”
“Can’t we just go back to the way we handled your writing before? He always had it finished before he played it for us,” Ty told Shan.
“But we’re bringing it to you as we go along so you can be part of the process,” Shan said. “This way, the whole band is contributing.”
“They contribute plenty after the songs are written,” Quinn said, “and that’s how it should be. You were the one who insisted on a group love fest, which I knew would turn into a cluster fuck.”
“But don’t you think
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